


A Way of Reaching Out

by baybetime



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Family Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:34:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25700686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baybetime/pseuds/baybetime
Summary: Three and a half weeks in, Feliciano had completely abandoned any semblance of a sleep schedule. He stumbled into the kitchen at 3pm and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. Romano said “good afternoon” testily, and inclined his head to a half-empty coffee pot on the rickety little glass table.
Kudos: 12





	A Way of Reaching Out

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of quarantine for me has been listening to Disappear by Beyoncé and wishing I was better at telling my loved ones how much they mean to me, so this is 100% me projecting on comfort characters...with some Spamano on the side because there always is. Yes, I only ever write emotionally stunted one-shots, thank you for asking.

The first two weeks were odd, to say the least. Feliciano had become so used to constant travel, crashing in foreign hotels and guest bedrooms, that the act of going without the fluorescent atmosphere of an airport for more than ten days felt almost sacrilegious. Romano had started keeping boxes of clutter in what was supposed to be _his_ room of _their_ apartment, and one of the first things Feliciano did to pass the time was shove them across the floor, from the foot of his bed to the modestly-sized closet. Then he rolled up his sleeves and hung his suit jacket on the rack and looked at it. It seemed like it was making a point, lonely among a line of empty hangers. The room itself was similarly lifeless. The walls were white and barren, save for a cork board above a small desk, lit by a spare lamp. Pinned to the board was a picture of him and Romano sometime in the 60s. His brother looked much the same, but he grimaced at his own hairstyle, grown out past the jaw in an unflattering way. Neither of them were smiling, too absorbed in whatever was playing on the television. He struggled to remember who had taken the picture.

That evening, after eating the takeout Romano ordered, Feliciano tried at small talk. He cleared his throat and smiled nervously.

“You think they’ll find a vaccine soon?”

“No.” Romano didn't even look up from his phone. “They say it’ll take, like, eighteen months.”

“That’s stupid,” Feliciano said, but nodded. “How do they know?”

Romano shrugged. “It takes time to run tests and shit.”

Feliciano tried to think about staying in one place for eighteen months. In the grand scheme of immortality, a year and a half was not a long time, but…a year and a half without travel. A year and a half without friends, or museums, or new restaurants to explore, or coffee runs, or pretty girls to meet. And then the reality of it all sort of hit him over the head. _Oh my god_ , he thought, looking around the minuscule apartment as if seeing it for the first time. _Eighteen months._

Romano broke open a fortune cookie and avoided his gaze.

Three and a half weeks in, Feliciano had completely abandoned any semblance of a sleep schedule. He stumbled into the kitchen at 3pm and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. Romano said “good afternoon” testily, and inclined his head to a half-empty coffee pot on the rickety little glass table. As Feliciano drank, the cat wandered in.

“Hello you,” Romano murmured, reaching out to scratch under her chin as she stood on her hind legs and stretched her arms up to his knees. Feliciano watched them. Romano was always soft around animals, and his expression became gentle as he made eye contact with her.

Standing with his mug in tow, Feliciano ambled out of the kitchen and into his bedroom with purpose. He found what he was looking for in the front pocket of a suitcase, and when he returned to the table, Romano raised a well-groomed eyebrow at his sketchbook. The cat purred contentedly from his lap.

“Can I draw you two?” And as if this were a loaded question, Romano took a moment to respond, eventually nodding warily and reaching across to take a sip of Feliciano’s coffee.

It was clear after about 30 seconds that Lovino had no idea what to do with himself as he was drawn. First he put his hands on the table, then the cat, then he reached up to fix his hair. Feliciano told him to stop fidgeting, and he said “I’m not!” Before reaching down to pet the cat again.

He traced the line of his left hand on her fur with a pencil, then stopped to take in his work. It did not look like Lovino; the shoulders were set too wide in what looked like confidence, and the near-constant apprehension was missing from his face. Sighing, Feliciano tore off the page and balled it up. For a moment Romano looked like he wanted to say something, but his mouth snapped shut and he pushed the coffee cup back across the table.

After five weeks, they both became antsy. Romano spent almost all hours of the day on the balcony, observing those across the street who did the same, and Feliciano tackled the impressive amount of mess that permeated almost every quiet corner of the apartment. Secretly he thought Romano’s hoarding problem had less to do with laziness and more a fear of letting go, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. In what was referred to as a spare room but was really more the size of a walk-in closet, Romano kept boxes upon boxes of paper -- legal documents, a few paintings stashed like pornography under folders and behind a table, but mostly: photos. Feliciano spent an entire afternoon spacing all the little pictures out by decade, like a timeline. There were a few in particular that made him laugh; Lovino, with a ruffled cravat and shiny vest, standing awkwardly for a black-and-white portrait; Feliciano, his arm around a smiling girl in a short beaded dress, his hat tilted jauntily over one eye; Prussia with a leather jacket and his hair gelled so it stood straight up; Spain in a ridiculous patterned shirt and bell-bottoms, winking mischievously at the camera; Belgium with a pixie cut that didn't quite suit her round face.

Romano came in and asked what was so funny. Feliciano offered up a photo of Turkey sometime in the 90s with, horror of all horrors, _guyliner_. Lovino sat down on the floor and laughed. They sorted through the piles of photographs and became teary-eyed, giggling (“Remember when France cut his hair?”), until the last cardboard box was empty and they were surrounded by a sea of forgotten moments, from sepia to the vibrantly colored.

Romano was looking a tad too fondly at a candid of Spain (beer bottle in hand, grinning vaguely at something out of frame), when Feliciano said, “Why do you hide your art?”

The picture was dropped, delicately, and Romano pretended to look for another. “Dunno.”

Feliciano picked at his nails and waited fruitlessly for eye contact. “Are you embarrassed? It's very good.” He reached behind him and presented a half-finished sketch of a vase of flowers. “I’ve always liked how you shade.”

Romano was shifting subtly away from him, so that their knees weren't parallel anymore. “Maybe I just don't need all my shit validated by other people.”

It was clearly a jab, if a subtle one, but Feliciano wasn't hurt because it was such an obvious lie. Lovino needed almost everything validated.

“Well, let me know if you ever want to show me a painting or anything. I’d love to see it.”

Lovino ignored him, holding up a photo of Feliciano with a long, feathered mullet and a wispy mustache. “What the fuck were you _thinking_?” And Feliciano laughed.

Over the course of three months, the two of them started waking up at the same time - before noon, even. Often Lovino would make breakfast and Feliciano would do the dishes - then they'd switch for lunch. Dinner was an every-man-for-himself sort of affair.

One morning, Lovino made omelettes and poured two glasses of orange juice, only to sit down and not make a move to touch his fork. Feliciano slowed his chewing and assessed his expression.

Nervous. Reluctant. Sacred, even. He swallowed and waited for Lovino to speak - he’d found patience was often more effective than prying when his brother considered baring even a small piece of his soul. Finally, Lovino sipped at his orange juice and murmured, “Spain hasn't called in a while.”

 _Ah_. Feliciano looked down at his plate, did his best to feign nonchalance. “How long, exactly?”

Romano seemed to consider pretending he didn't know for a moment, and then said, even quieter, “two weeks. And a day.”

As endearing as it was that Lovino was counting the days, Feliciano did adopt some concern. Spain’s calls were frequent, lengthy, and boosted Lovino’s mood considerably. A few weeks without his brother disappearing into another room to speak for a few hours, terse but affectionate, quickly became somewhat nightmarish. No wonder Romano seemed drained.

“Has he texted you?”

“Yes.” Lovino was making every attempt to avoid meeting Feliciano’s eyes, clearly embarrassed to have broached the topic at all. “He says he’s really busy.”

That was understandable. As much as he felt responsible to do a large amount of the work expected of him and his brother, Feliciano couldn't imagine fulfilling the duties of a nation without occasional help. “It makes sense,” he reassured. “Think of how swamped we were a couple weeks ago.”

This was not the answer Romano wanted to hear, because he picked up his fork and glared at the napkin in his lap. Feliciano quickly amended.

“You could try calling him, though. Tell him you, ah...miss talking, and things.” The vagueness of his advice comforted Lovino, whose shoulders loosened. He nodded, and took a sip of his juice.

Feliciano smiled at him, and for a moment, he got a half a smile back.

“Thank you for breakfast.”

“It’s nothing.”

Feliciano had a tendency for midnight snacks, which was apparently foreign to his brother ("Why don't you just eat enough at dinner?"). At about two in the morning, he shuffled out of bed in a pair of joggers and stole as quietly as he could to the pantry. Cereal was just better at night.

But he heard something, which was odd, because Lovino usually went to bed hours earlier. The stove light was on, and as he crept closer his ears deciphered the noise.

Spanish, fast and hushed, spoken into a laptop microphone. Feliciano realized his mistake a moment too late, and before he could turn around he made eye contact with his brother, who abruptly stopped talking. Illuminated by blue light, his eyes looked wide and desperate. Feliciano had interrupted a moment he should not have.

Spain, too perceptive for his own good, broke the silence. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Feliciano half-whispered back. Lovino leaned back in his chair.

“How have you been?” Spain asked in clunky Italian, and despite the guilt in his chest Feliciano laughed.

“I’m good! I get to eat Romano’s cooking every day.”

“Ah, I’m so jealous!” Spain cried, and Lovino’s tense expression cracked into a smile.

“Like I’d cook for you under normal circumstances.”

“Even if you hadn't seen me in months?”

“No!”

Smiling to himself, Feliciano opened the fridge and reached for a carton of milk.

Some nights they would sit together on the balcony and drink wine and listen to people sing. It was especially fun when the old men a few doors down broke out their instruments and accompanied the young people of the apartment complexes, who sang almost every night, like a way of reaching out to each other. They had never joined in, but one night, when Feliciano had had a little more to drink than usual, he stood and told Romano, “I think I left an accordion around here somewhere, years ago!” At the same time his knee jostled the little metal table and nearly upended a wine bottle, but instead of snapping at him Romano righted the glass and chuckled.

“Is it red?”

“I think so.”

“Check the coat closet.”

When Feliciano returned he had to rub all the dust off the instrument with his shirt, and Lovino looked dubious. “That thing is fucking old. It must be out of tune.”

Feliciano shook his head. “Accordions don't get out of tune!” And then he confidently slipped his fingers under the straps, pressed a chord at random and pulled his hands apart.

A sound like an ancient car failing to start up cut through their neighbors’ song, and for a moment, silence followed -- save for Romano’s cackling.

Feliciano had the decency to look apologetic, though he was really too drunk to care. “Sorry!”

Lovino was still doubled over. “You - _ha_ \- you dumb _fuck!_ ” But Feliciano would not be deterred. He adjusted his handling and tried to remember a tune, any tune. The resulting notes were more like groans than music, but gratifying nonetheless. Lovino quieted and refilled their glasses, watching him. Eventually Feliciano sat down and tinkered with the buttons.

“Who taught you to play?”

Feliciano looked up, surprised at the question. Lovino looked genuinely curious. “I don't know. Eliza, maybe? I was a teenager.”

Lovino nodded, comfortably inebriated. “ _Nonno_ taught me to play the lyre. When I was really young.” Feliciano's fingers stilled on the instrument. It wasn't often that Lovino spoke so openly about their grandfather.

“Do you remember how?”

“Not really. But I remember how big his hands looked next to mine, on the strings. I wanted hands as big as his one day.”

Feliciano looked to Lovino’s hands, resting on the table, uncalloused and short. He had no way of knowing how big Rome’s hands really were, but he wondered at the difference anyways. His memories of the man’s face were all fuzzy at best. He wished he could keep Lovino talking, answer every question he’d ever had about their ancestry, but his brother changed the subject.

“It’s been nice lately,” Lovino said vaguely, his face red. “I mean...I’ve.” His breath hitched in a painful sounding way. “I’ve missed you.”

Feliciano looked at Lovino, who did not look back, just brushed his hair out of his eyes and leaned his arm against the railing in a faux-casual way.

And he smiled.

“I've missed you, too.”


End file.
